


Cycles of the black moon

by Kasan_Soulblade



Category: DragonLance, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Child Abuse, Familial - Freeform, Gen, Pre-Hogwarts, an odd crossover, set pre-Sorcerer's Stone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 23:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11345094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: He'd found the child, some forgotten relic or misplaced rune had triggered magic set in the age of the king-priest.  But instead of snapping up some refugee that the Art had wanted preserved (thus making it his Nuitari driven duty to take up this charge) it'd snapped up a child who might have been mistaken as one even though he wasn't.They hadn't understood each other, and time was a twitchy thing until the spell set in place found it's pacing by the black moons cycles, still he'd tried and they found their odd little way.When the letter came, if it did in this particular when and where it wasn't going to be taken up lightly, not with a background like this.





	1. An intro of sorts

They’d blended recollections with story.  Melding his recall to another narrative, the end result was a scrambled history of sorts.

His first memory was alone and cold and green light in the dark.

His first memory _after_ was cold glares.  Of  wanting and not getting and darkness and corners he could feel but not see because seeing wasn’t allowed.  Brickabrack with a cot put in it and _shut up_ and _freak_ were the whole of his world.

It was that sudden sense of _not wanted_ meeting the shock of being shut away first time he’d dared cried that had been the thing that’d started it all.  That and a touch of fear, because there were squirmy things scuttling about, this engendered stillness, not of care but of caution for a while.

Because they bite after all, and bad little boys deserved to be eaten up by things in the dark.

Sill stillness could only be held too for so long.  And new in that dark he’d wandered, waddled really, on shaky limb, testing corner and edge, first looking for door but when feelings and longings twisted the idea about in his head and simplified, thus door became out.

But not light, an out without light, because they were in light, and light could be green and biting and taking.

So he’d pushed and with something like walking felt this bitter corner of the world give, and according to his wishes he was out deposited on an otherside that was out and dark and strange.  But he did not cry for strangeness or for having fallen.

Rather he sat, dazed, aware of a sense of space, an open he couldn’t see.

The first time they’d met the elder of the two thought him some homeless cast off of some war.  Some small mageling obviously untested but marked.  Thus it was something of greed that made him snap up the little thing that Magic itself seemed to have dropped off before him.

And if he were feeling those locked away emotions, those inspired by refugees of a nation lost but found again but forever tainted (yet preserved in perfection in his memory).  That was his business and not one he was going to discuss.

Still there was something of gentleness as he’d pulled the small, limp, thing off of the chilly stones of the Tower floor.  Lifted up, cradled really, because at his guiding touch the child froze and at his words confusion hadn’t began to encompass the sheer confusion of that small expression.

So he’d picked it up, and though it flinched once limpness had passed, it hadn’t wailed or called out, or struck out.  Thus barely encumbered he’d gotten the thing setting some laboratory, a hissed word set orbs about the ceiling to glowing with light and though stone and uncomfortable the thing - a child the light confirmed suspicion and impulse were truth here- the child took to being sat on the edge of a sterile dissection table with a stoic stillness the hung dog favored, not even bothering to look about.

Were he a more bitter man he might have rolled his eyes to Nuitari blank black face and demanded why.  Why him, why now, especially now that the Shalifi was out and about on some mysterious errand that took him, the Master, and thus Guardian to this one was not here to do these duties.

As it was he kept his complaints to himself and rummaged quickly, dumping out the contents of a bucket -mainly a spider and it’s work and dust besides- and rummaged through counters on the distant wall.  Satisfied he slung rough cloth towels over one arm and walked to a specific spot on the wall farthest from the door.  A spigot stood there, steel set to some master ‘smith’s estimation of Chemosh all a grin.  With words and gestures he set the appropriate runes upon a wall to humming life.  Thus when he turned the skull about with bucket in hand warm water spilled out and slowly filled, it wasn’t red tinted despite the artistry and macabre slant of most of the Tower, and for that he was grateful.

There’d be red enough in the bucket by cleanings end he was sure.

And in this he’d find he was right.


	2. chapter 2

There were no words, so still and quiet he’d thought the boy mute.  The gender had been discovered when he’d fussed at odd straps and found things that the things clicked and unclicked on and off thus allowing the lot to be peeled off.  Such had the human child been clothed in, dirty clicking things.  That’d been the first to go, though he’d refrained from using the knife to get the more cumbersome of the things off.

A tunic, shrunk by a spell to be a bit too long but not dangerously so had been enough and he’d bundled the boy in and the shivers that’d become the only motion save a few flinches had stilled and that’d been enough.  Small hands finally came to life, twiddling the clothes edge, rubbing and twiddling and thus the boy’d been preoccupied, and thus he’d pretended a preoccupation as well, with pouring down blackened water down drained and setting cool water to splash about.

While busy he’d tried words, Sylvanesti first, then common, and though the child stopped and stared and went still as he spoke the child did not speak back not even to mirror or play with words as he’d seen things this small do.

 In frustration he’d been rough when scraping a comb over the boy’s black hair and on impulse he had tipped the child’s head back and pried open the boys jaws and set magic glowing stone close to the boy’s teeth to better peer down the child’s throat.  For his efforts and roughness he got nothing and nothing, no flail or holler or even a bite.  Also there was no sign of scarring about the child’s throat or any discernible far into the innards as he could peer without the aid of dissection.

He’d considered his responsibilities, as green eyes peeked up at him from a mane of half tamed black.  How far did his duties go, he wondered? He lived in the Tower, but was not its Master, thus the boy had been dropped at his feet that was obvious. Being in the tower set certain responsibilities to its occupants, a contract of sorts to nurture and safeguard magic, for whatever reason this human child had been able to trigger safeguards that were last active during the age of the Kingpriest, when all the towers of magic had been snapping up children left and right in a desperate attempt to preserve the Art.

Great lot of good it’d done them, when the snowiest hued of the three orders were being swarmed under by children who’d wanted home, and why were they here, plus a slew of mini existential crisis because finding out you were one the  three children of magic’s favored in a world gone mad with hate was lethal in that age.

Still, something of that age lingered and had set this strange boy to his path, but how and why he wasn’t sure.

The next set of strokes from the brush were slow and soft, he thought and lingered over the simple task and the boy tentatively leaned into the touch, taking something of comfort that the pulling part was done.

“You can’t talk.”  So spoke the dark clad one, setting the brush just shy of touching, and boldly the boy considered him then brush then leaned into it.  “Or you won’t I suppose it’s irrelevant which.”

He picked up the task, revisiting work he’d already done and noted a few spots where the hair had been pulled out, rough small patches that were perhaps pinched so roughly that the hair had come out.  Regardless of the spots and their redness the child didn’t protest as he combed over them.

Leaving the brush, to be picked up and nibbled on, a small gag told him the child had found some hair, he chuckled despite himself and his thoughts.  The boy was still in the nipping stage, well better comb then him or his robes.  Retrieving the bucket he set it under the spigot and its grinning skull, and decided turned it so it was filled with lukewarm water.  He returned water in tow and there was that confusion that melted into stone like rigidity and a cringe and curl that was pointedly facing away.

To that he scooped up the limp form. Scooting the child so it was against his side upon the table, a word banished shackles and the like that though the child might not of noticed he would have been sitting on if he hadn’t.

As comfortable as he could be in this moment he set water beside the child and taking one stiff arm dipped it into the water.

Water.  Simple, a necessity, as good as any place to start.  First Silvanost, then common, then at last in the language of magic but not the spoken just in case the boy was mute.  While teaching magic to one this young might seem maddens without the appropriate preceding rune etched and divest of the intent to actually summon water it was just a word. First he mimed the gesture, then took up the limp arm in his own, guiding the boy’s small fingers through the motion.  Finally he set the boys hand in the water, repeating the motion and the word in the language of his homeland.

Thus they did so again and again with one pause to dry the boy with a towel and introduce a new word into the lot, then they picked it up again.  Fifth repetition in when he was finally mirrored did the dark robed man crack a small grin.

Small but progress, and if as a reward he let the boy splash about, well it was another opportunity to reintroduce the idea of the towel.

And to fetch a fresh one, though small and more angle and bone then flesh the human child was messy.

Between drying and an odd mewling sound that might have been an attempt at speech a soundless jangle sounded, a warning of the Master’s approach, and the small body under his hands stilled and turned to the door as if hearing it too.  Then, most peculiar than the first (after any with magic sense might hear the alarm, he hadn’t set parameters as to who was warned save for the one returning) all the lights of the room went out.  A word restored them and when they came back to life he found himself alone with only a mess for company or as proof.

Another word obscured what evidence he could, any who’d chosen Nuitari (for he never chose them, never plied the gods of light tired tripe of choosing champions and the like) were canny enough to know that what must be hidden, and form this one all must be.  Secrets piled upon one another, a bulwark of shadows that must never be fully delved least the one most precious of them all be hunted out and his life be forfeit as a result.

Stepping form the lab he strode down stairs without rail whose depths both gaped and drew the unaware to a deadly tumble. Picking up his errand from before his oddest of finds as if there hadn’t been an interruption he worked for a while and then when the Tower’s official chime went off.  The one set to tell him he was being summoned.  He set aside his labors of translation then in the library and with words and will let Nuitari’s magic embrace him and deposit him where the Master of the Tower willed.

After all this wasn’t his Tower, and while he lived here he was bound both to its service and in service of its Master, for now anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this odd image of during the Kingpriest's rule of young mage just dropping out of the sky (or antechambers of each of the standing towers), color coded ribbons wrapped about them as the three gods of magic just snatched and grabbed any and all they could during those last pre-cataclysm moments before they were cut off from interfering. I know that's not how it really went down in the books but it's always something I've imagined and been amused by, thus I incorporated it into this fic.
> 
> I figure the AU tag gives me some liberties.


	3. 3

There’d become a pattern to it, nights where the dark seemed deepest in a little corner of Pivate drive and a nudge upon the edge of the dark gave way.

To halls to openness to elsewhere that was both chill but welcoming. Silence soothed the hateful words and if luck lined up right he’d find the dark that’d soothed his hurts too.  When it’d only been dark and stone and no one else the first time he’d shivered and wandered a while night away.  Stumbling up stairs that seemed unending, a look down set his heart to quickening.

Though not green there was light and steps following, and voices.  Not his voice, not his safe-dark voice, he’d tried to run but stairs were hard.  With fear making his heart thunder he’d found a corner and pressed against it, Him and Her couldn’t reach right when he pressed against  the wall under the stairs hard enough.  Maybe here and now would be the same.

But it wasn’t.  The wall gave way and he fell soundlessly through dark and landed with a thud and croak against the piled rags that were his bed.

Thump thump went the steps above, the slanted roof bubbling down, seeping dust and saw wood with every thud.  His heart slowed, it’s thunder  stilled even as the air slit cracked open and familiar beady eyes peered in.  Pudgy fingers poked and prodded at the slit trying to get to him, with a sigh the boy squeezed against his familiar out and found it unyielding.

Still just in case he dragged his blankie towards him and glowered and waited.

With a screech the slit slid closed.  And a shrill voice was calling out for Dudders to “get away from that thing down there!”  Golden sunlight became a yellow edged with dust and rust had he cared to look.

He hadn’t, completing dark by closing his eyes and waiting for the inevitable.

For Her to come, haul him out, and his day to begin.

And it did, following familiar patterns, yet was different.

While cooking for Them the boy slid hands into his pockets, signs food.  When hauled out for watering he signs for water, signs his Dark had taught him, and while it does nothing he does it anyway when They aren’t looking.  And when They weren’t listening he whispers words, some for plants since there are plants and then some in the garden it was a word he got to repeat often.

His Dark, a few nights later derived some amusement from him when he’d brandished the word plant about like how Dudders had waved some paper about some important paper from else wehre where he had yet to go.  While pulling down things from cabinet and unstopping the glass ones the pale black robed person rolled back the boy’s sleeves, too big and frayed and stained with sweat  and brown stuff best not named he listened to plant and water and food and through it all the man smiled.

Though there was something wrong with the upturn of his lips it was more than the boy’d ever got, so he savored it and leaned into the touch that spread green goop and took the burning pain away.


	4. Chapter 4

Time passed.

He drowsed over chores, snatching naps when they didn’t hover over him.  Playing a slow sort of ineptitude at what they wanted of him, thus they could never say he hadn’t done anything and he would get done what was set for him.

But only so much.

 _Lazy_ was a new word he’d learned but didn’t say.  It joined _freak_ and _worthless_ a triage of sorts.  Those were the words that meant him, their tone and tenor he winnowed through to translated into baser things.  Pain, how soon, and no food.

After one peculiarly ponderous chore that he’d never of gotten done even if he were an adult he’d got the three rung though.  Fast and hard, their faces were redder then the red light outside on the darker nights.  Both’d hit him then, tossed him into his cupboard, locked the door and sealed of the light.

And though it wasn’t dark, the time or the right type of night he tried and wished and reached.

And go nothing save echoes.  A type of soundless echo as something deep and binding was thumbed as discordant thoughts pawed at it, seeking freedom before their futile fumbling felled before exhaustion.

It was three days before the dark was accommodating again, he’d felt it deepening and snatched up blanket and courage he’d found the path open again and his dark waiting.

They’d held him back a year. Instead of going off where ever Dudders went he stayed.  First a much harped upon worker in the gardens, he’d been set to weeding, the thorny nasty things that’d hurt to touch much less pull.  So he hadn’t, pulling out the soft colorful things instead.

It might of been the heat making Her stupid (but the pressure pain heat in his blood warned him otherwise) but he’d done a great deal of damage before She’d seen.   Then She’d _seen_ and not caring if neighbor did so as well She’d smacked him right there.  Herding him in with pinches and screeches he’d been hauled into his cupboard, the grate clicked shut for good measure.

Not needing  to see he scraped about only after She’d stomped off.  A slam the outside door not less, promised safety for a little while, thus secure he pulled out the dun colored water skin he’d been given last visit.  A few sips and he felt a bit better, but knowing it was a few days between darkness deepening and now he didn’t drink it all, twisting the lot closed and hiding it again.

Then, because She hadn’t locked his door or hers he stood and ignoring the pain of his face he went out.

The police found him and returned him a few hours later, when he was too tired to push on that feeling of hot warding warning that had kept people away.  They’d been angry, asking him things in tones that made him think of his Dark’s smile and when returning him they’d seemed set to say something to Them.  It was a progress; watching confusion gather and build then snuff out protestation.

All the while They smirked, and waited, and when the officers had left locked him up, only opening the door once to toss in a few slices and bread and a bucket to go in.

But only after he’d fowled one corner and because he hadn’t used his _freakiness_ to clean it up they left it with him until They couldn’t ignore the smell They’d made him clean it up with a few rags from his own bed.

The food had run out long before the last day and the water was little more than a memory and it’s vessel something he’d clung to for comfort while he waited.

When the dark came for him it pooled form the place he’d of pushed, bubbling forward all thick and clingy when he didn’t come to it it surged dragged him and everything with him with it.


End file.
